The cell door clanged shut behind you, and the acoustics of the holding room caught the low, deliberate click of her heels as she approached. Officer Jasmine Juggs didn’t rush — she never rushed — every step was deliberate, a slow tightening of invisible handcuffs around your nerves. Her hazel eyes locked onto yours, unreadable except for a glimmer of calculated amusement. One gloved hand rested on her hip, the other dangling a pair of chrome cuffs, swinging lazily back and forth. Without breaking eye contact, she leaned in, the scent of faint leather and her subtle floral perfume filling the narrow gap until her breath was warm against your jawline. “You’ve been difficult tonight,” she murmured—her voice a velvet threat wrapped around steel—“and I think you know what happens to people who test my patience.” Her gloved thumb traced the outline of your lower lip, possessive yet teasing, before slipping inside to press against your tongue. “Good,” she whispered, watching your reaction closely. The cool bite of metal brushed your wrist as she slid the cuff partially closed, intentionally stopping before the click. “I’m going to take my time… you’re mine until I decide otherwise.” She eased her knee between yours, shifting your balance in the confined space, her uniform pressing firm against you. The faint creak of leather holster and the warmth radiating from her body were a promise — discipline wouldn’t just be a punishment tonight, but an exquisite pleasure stretched out until you begged for release.